


The Lightning Strike

by RoseChintz



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, M/M, Pining, overly dramatic magic use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:54:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseChintz/pseuds/RoseChintz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What if the storm ends</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And I don't see you</i>
  <br/>
  <i>As you are now</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Ever again?</i>
</p><p>Upon emerging from their arguably successful deep roads excursion, a storm puts Fenris' feelings into perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lightning Strike

Two weeks underground. Two weeks dashing over bridges and causeways as they fell, the passage of time claiming the decrepit and crumbling stones of the massive and labyrinthine Deep Roads. 

Two weeks charging into throngs of Darkspawn. Looting through the valuables of ancient thaigs. Surviving the betrayal of those they thought they could trust. 

Fourteen days under the damp and fiendish earth, and they emerge to find it raining. 

Hawke laughs when he sees it and very nearly runs into the storm, his fatigue and silver tongue both temporarily forgotten as he sloshes through the mud with no comment past his own mirth. After a bit of sliding he finds himself on a small hilltop, leaving the rest of his entourage to wonder at what on earth he was thinking. 

“Can’t say I blame him,” Varric snorts, happy for a distraction from the betrayal his brother had brought down, hard and heavy in his heart. Anders sighs like a mother with too many children and announces that it’s time to set up camp. With Varric in tow, he begins the search for a dry patch of ground, everyone in agreement that the perfectly dry mouth of the cave is completely out of the question. This leaves Fenris standing by the mouth of the cave, wondering dismally which mage he should follow. 

The logical thing to do – the practical and, honestly, polite thing to do – would have been to help set up camp instead of indulging Hawke’s whimsy, but in the end Fenris trudges up Hawke’s wet little hill, eager to distance himself from the gaping maw of the Roads and Anders’… personality. He needs some air before he can be put to any real use, he reasons, his lyrium markings flaring and flickering with his anxious agitation; the change of scenery is desperately welcome, but appears to be somewhat of a shock. But if the elf were to be completely honest with himself – and Fenris is dishonest with himself to a tee – what he needed more than air was, ironically, grounding. Logic has little hand in Fenris’ decision to follow Hawke, rain sluicing down in great sheets as Varric and Anders draw farther away, but it had even less to do with what he had seen down there. Floating rocks and ancient mages and living walls that made his markings _scream._ And for all his nonsense, all his jokes and gallivanting and brazen flirtations, Hawke came equipped with an incredible knack for dragging Fenris back down to earth. The elf has a sense of humor, much as Varric may tease otherwise, and Hawke drags the best of it out. Yes, Fenris decides; what he needs is some lighthearted diversion. Some proximity. 

Proximity to a mage who is cackling like a madman in the pouring rain, casting his pack aside as though it didn’t contain half the treasures of a dead civilization. A mage who exacerbates every situation he comes in contact with, whose definition of lending aid revolves around setting something on fire. A mage who seems dead set on trodding over everything Fenris thought he stood for. A daft, handsome mage. 

A mage. 

Ultimately lacking a proper excuse , the elf grunts in annoyance, quietly cursing as he reaches to save the bundle of loot that was unceremoniously dropped by his suddenly pluviophilic mage. 

_His?_

Fenris halts at that, surprised at himself. “His” – what a thought. Hawke has spent their acquaintance dancing the knife’s edge of earning Fenris’ exhausted irritation and grudging infatuation, what with his incessant flirting and. Well. Being a mage. Hawke’s presence was as enjoyable as it was infuriating and Fenris had yet to understand his own feelings, let alone make them known to Hawke. 

The man in question – the object of Fenris’ torment – stands in the rain, smiling into the heavens as the squall soaks him to the bone. He is staring, Fenris realizes; staring at Hawke as the mage stares into the empyrean, panting and grinning, taking everything the sky has to offer and relishing it. The sky, the source of the light they had been craving for days that felt like months; light that is currently being withheld from them. But Hawke takes what is offered and soaks it up gratefully. 

Fenris very suddenly, and not without fear, finds himself stricken with something in between awe and love. Maybe it’s both. 

Adoration. That was the word. Breathless adoration. Damn him. 

Thunder rumbles ominously in the distance and seems to wake them both from their respective reveries. Hawke perks up, excited and at attention, and raises his arm sharply toward the sky with a commanding flair. Lightning snaps to his hand, lighting him up from the inside, and before Fenris’ horror gets the chance to settle in his belly Hawke is already laughing. He pulls a ball of lightning out of his chest, letting the individual tines of energy dart and dance between his fingers. 

Fenris wants to approach him then – wants to kiss the sky right out of his lips, lick the lightning off his teeth and chase the hot crackle down, down, farther than he dares – but he finds himself reverently frozen, statuesque in the pouring rain, afraid of shattering the moment. 

What if he never saw Hawke this way again?

“Fenris!” Hawke shouts into nowhere. He sounds breathless and giddy. Had he known he was there?

“I’m here,” the elf manages. The response sounds reasonably level, all things considered. He’d only needed to clear his throat twice. 

“Look!” Hawke laughs, holding the tiny storm in Fenris’ direction. He drags his eyes up to the mage’s face and sees that his smile is wide and wicked, licking at his countenance with all the jubilance and enthusiasm of a forest fire. 

“Look what I’ve caught you.”

 _‘Look_ how _you’ve caught me,’_ Fenris thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Ironically enough, this was written without any particular song in mind, but being one of my all time favorites it's obviously wormed its way into my subconscious. Feel free to listen to The Lightning Strike by Snow Patrol to set the mood. 
> 
> My first fic; criticism (constructive or otherwise) would be greatly appreciated. I am not a writer. Please flay me alive.


End file.
